


Let Me Show You How It's Done

by mkidwell



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Dominance, Dreams, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, F/M, Father and Son, M/M, Manipulation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Moaning, Multi, Submission, Yearning, a plea for more mr. robot/you fanfic, groaning, i mean come on christian slater is ridiculously attractive, rough, sex in chapter three!, sounds, up against a wall, you bet he says kiddo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-15 02:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9215246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mkidwell/pseuds/mkidwell
Summary: [Chapter 4 posted!]You and Elliot find yourselves together, but something is missing from your sex life.Someone familiar tries to help, and you're in way over your head.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Long-time reader, first-time poster. Aiming for 3 chapters minimum. We'll see where this goes!
> 
> Spoilers for seasons 1 & 2\. You're caught up, yes?

Elliot really likes you.

When you realize this, he's lying in bed and you're looking at his mouth. A small, strange smile sits on his lips, and as you process this, you find that you're surprised. You know very well that Elliot is very difficult to read, but now he's ... sheepish? You get a sense that he's vulnerable now, a different kind of vulnerable. Not the kind that's sprawled on dirty bathroom floor tile or collapsed next to a puddle of thin, grainy vomit. He has nowhere to go, and Elliot is looking at you with those eyes and tiny smile. You've never seen him do that. You've never felt that.

This is all the more surprising to you because, after all, you know  _everything_. You've been with him since the beginning, the little bird on his shoulder he turned to for comfort. Every panic attack, every meltdown, every agonizing minute of a bad high or some other invisible pain—you were there for them all. And you remember his subsequent apologies; he's always talking to you. You're always listening. 

So you listen once again: "I understand if you're ... well, you know. Not interested." Elliot is now sitting on the edge of the mattress with his palms against his thighs. He keeps his eyes to the floor, staring at his socks. "I'm not exactly the easiest person to deal with. I'm sorry." He pauses, then, "I just hope ... you know ... that I care about you. You're always here. I want to be here, too. For you." 

His confidence floats in a balloon and you feel like you're holding the needle. Compared to the other escapades, escapes, espionage, this time, he's _really_ unsure of himself—unsure of the outcome, the output—but his smile tells you he's hoping you feel the same. That's what is in his eyes, a rare find. Hope.

There are days where all you can see are those large, tired orbs beneath his standard black hoodie. His exhaustion weighs on you like water. You've tried to comfort him, get him to eat ... you've watched him from his bed, resigned, as the glow of his monitor wraps around him instead of your arms; wondered where he goes, where he travels to as he types.

You're nodding now. The smile remains on Elliot's face. You understand. You _do_ feel the same. And you feel lucky.

• • •

After the revelation, your hacker blossoms little by little, letting your affection penetrate him like sunlight. It's not all sunshine, though. Of course not. There are moments where you startle him; stroking his arm or an unexpected hug from behind leaves him angry, or guilty, or both. Elliot apologizes. You continue to touch him. 

Worries and emotions tone down when you're kissing. Maybe that was the antidote all along. He's gentle, incredibly gentle—so gentle that you have to insist he brings his hands upward to cradle your face, stroke your cheeks as you both slowly melt into each other's mouths. His fingertips gingerly stroke your chin, tracing upwards until they rest at your temples. You can't tell whose heartbeat you're hearing in your ears. 

After some time, some nights of decent pizza and pirated movies, or a card game you convinced him to play, you invite him to your body. Elliot is hesitant. He's worried about hurting you, corrupting you in some way. He feels he doesn't deserve you. You assure him it's all OK. You want this. But you still listen. There's no rush, after all. Instead, you kiss once again, and you lead his hand to your ass, and you find your way into his jeans and boxers. Your fingers wrap around his cock and he lets out a gasp. Both of you take your time.

• • •

It's been about four months since you and Elliot became a pair.

One morning you wake up next to him and rub your eyes, trying to find your buzzing iPhone with an ongoing silent alarm. When your vision sharpens in the dark room, you turn off your annoying device and slowly remember a dream. The details are fuzzy. You try to recall anything about them, but the images and actions from the dream are faded. You have a stinging sensation in your arms. They're sore. Out of nowhere, the image of bound wrists against a headboard flashes in your mind. Your arms suddenly ache a long, dull pang.

No matter. You decide to sit up straight, stretch. Surely you slept wrong. Yet you still puzzle over your disappeared dream.

The contemplation doesn't last long because you then realize you're damp. Wet. You look down, cast aside the blanket over your legs and find your underwear is soaked. You catch a whiff of your sent.

You swallow, embarrassed. You mumble, It must have been a good dream.

Elliot stirs, but he's still sleeping. You sigh deeply, relieved. You then feel guilty— _what are you afraid of him seeing?_

Biting your lower lip, you look at him without moving your head, and slowly return beneath the covers. You shuffle deeper under the comforter until its edge reaches your chin.

Your hand reaches down into your wet underwear. You close your eyes and dream again.

• • •

A few days later, you and Elliot finally have sex. His hesitance waned (more quickly than you anticipated), and the remaining walls finally came down.

Are you really that special? You are now the closest person he has. 

The sex is good, and frequent. You know before it's time when Elliot wants you. After all, you know everything. 

But you also know, unfortunately, that when he fucks you, something is ... incomplete. You wonder what's wrong. Elliot handles you in bed the same way he does with your kisses—he is gentle, sweet, kind. He is delicate. Your lovemaking is intense, intimate. Your foreheads always touch when moves and thrusts inside you. You spoon after every delicious romp.

You just finished a late-night blowjob. Elliot looks incredibly satisfied as you take a sip of water, washing down his last ounces of cum. You set the glass down on the nightstand and lie back into bed, sinking into the pillows.

Something is missing. You hate to admit it, but an itch isn't being scratched. It all feels good, but ... 

"What's wrong?" Elliot prompts.

Just as you can feel his tension, he can feel yours. You realize you failed to hide the tiny ounce of disappointment on your face. Elliot's eyebrows furrow.

You lazily answer that everything is fine—OK. You were just tired. You regret how your response came out. You're not subtle.

"No," Elliot counters, his voice louder, and he leans closer to you. You're too embarrassed to meet his deep gaze. "No, I—you wanted something. Something more. Something else."

You don't respond.

"What did you want?" he urges. "Have you been wanting something from me ... here? Am I, am I not making you feel good?"

You force yourself to meet his eyes and say of course he is, that he's great. You nod, somehow convincing yourself this is true.

"Please don't lie to me," Elliot says, measured.

You've never lied to Elliot. Ever. What was there to lie about? Nothing, not until you two got together. You instantly recall the moments you thought—you _knew_ he was with his mother, carrying his routine, but that unraveled so fast. You were completely blindsided by the truth, the iron bars. You didn't know how to react, yet you were still fascinated and captivated by this enigma of a person. Elliot was a knot, somehow unraveling while still bundled tight.

You exhale. Suddenly, the image of bound wrists appears in your head again. Despite the awkward timing, instead of ignoring it, you catch it and let it settle in your brain. Your thighs start to feel warm. The ache in your arms return, and now your wrists hurt. You wonder what it's like for Elliot to be on top of you, with your arms up, leaving you exposed and ready to be fucked.

Is that what you want? What you  _really want_ from your sweet hacker?

After a beat, you ask, quietly, if he was up for trying something ... different.


	2. Chapter 2

It all spills.

Elliot is quiet. The bedside lamp flickers as you talk to him about your desires.

Your face is hot. This is not a conversation you have often, if ever. Maybe it comes up at your therapist's office, when you have the courage to bring it up, but at the end of the day your submissiveness brings you a tremendous amount of shame. You want so badly for Elliot to dominate you, but it was something you never wanted to admit. You somehow tell him this.

You look at Elliot's hands. His fingers are still. You wonder if he's ever going to touch you again.

You become more candid with Elliot as your feelings continue to spill from your throat. You sit there and recount how you want to be fucked—rough, hard, without abandon, _no_ caressing, peppered with spanking and hair-pulling and digging nails. You're the one apologizing now. You say you should have been honest with him, but you hoped he understood why you held this back. You consider mentioning the dream, but you change your mind.

After what seems to be hours, you finish with, It feels like opening Pandora's Box, you know? It's scary. It's a dark place that terrifies me, but thrills me at the same time. It makes me feel so good. And ...

You trail off, gripping the blanket you managed to stain with a few stray tears. You bite your tongue hard, wanting some kind of punishment for this, then scold yourself for the ludicrous irony. The guilt and shame burns on your cheeks. 

Elliot's voice startles you:

"Powerful."

Your head snaps up to look at him. He's examining you. The lamp's bulb has ceased flickering; you can clearly see his chest, his pale skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat.

He repeats, "It makes you feel powerful."

His eyes. There isn't hope there, not at this moment. But what's in them ... it looks familiar. Uncomfortable. You search his face, those pupils, for an answer. That look—

Elliot nods deliberately while he speaks, as if coming to some kind of conclusion. "I ... I know what that's like. Finding power ... in the dark."

Instinctively, you lean over to Elliot and kiss him softly, and your noses touch, and you close your eyes thinking about the face you just saw, Elliot's, and how for one split-second he looked afraid. Discomfort. Fear.  _Where have you seen that fear before? What happened when—_

Elliot grips your arms, throwing you off guard. "You know that ... don't you?" he pleads. He says your name. "That's why I'm with you. You understand. You don't ... judge me. I want you to feel good. Will you let me try?"

You don't know what to say. You're grateful, but you're still ashamed, ashamed of everything you admitted. You feel lucky again. You enjoy the warmth from his soft palms touching your arms. But in an instant, your concern spikes when you see Elliot's eyes widen.

He's not looking at you anymore.

And it suddenly hits you. You hold your breath.

You remember.

You know everything, after all. You've known Elliot for a long time. And you've seen those eyes before. That look. That fear.

• • •

Elliot shoves you into the mattress and pulls the comforter over you with a sharp yank. You yelp in surprise, startled by his force. He leaps out of bed. In the process, something hits the floor, maybe your iPhone or that glass of water, or both. You hear a chair grind against the wooden floor, screeching. Elliot stomps around to your side of the bed and screams.

"The fuck are you doing here?!"

• • •

You try to steady your heartbeat and quiet your panting. It's so warm under the comforter because of your quick, frantic breaths. The patch of muscle and skin beneath your shoulder hurts. Elliot is strong. You try to reconcile his gentle nature with him shoving you away in such a violent manner. You repeat to yourself, over and over, he's trying to protect you right now.

You keep your eyes open as you desperately try to calm down your breathing. Whatever you're trying to do—it doesn't seem to be working.

How did you forget about him?

How did you _forget_ about  _him_?

You know and see everything.

Everything.

You feel dazed as you hear an older voice sigh, " _Easy_ , kiddo, easy. I just want to assist you with your _predicament_. Can't an old man help his son?" 

• • •

Hiding under the comforter, you are now fully aware of Mr. Robot's presence. You desperately want to peek out and look at him. His stature fades into your mind. You see his iconic patch on his weathered jacket; the scruff on his cheeks and chin; the dingy cap on his head, the lightly patterned scarf around his neck; his brown hair, tucked away under his hat—his glasses. The dark boots, scuffed, draped by old jeans. 

You remember his smirk. Those glasses.

You smell a faint aroma of cigarette smoke.

"Get out," Elliot commands. You hear a lighter's click and a deep exhale. "No. I won't let you stay here. You're not supposed to be here." You stay still.

You hear Mr. Robot suck his teeth. "Jesus, Elliot, are we _really_ going to have this fucking conversation  _again_? The You're Me-I'm You Bullshit? Kid, I'm not going anywhere, because _I'm_ not letting you fuck this up."

You imagine Elliot standing before Mr. Robot in rage, his fists clenched and knuckles white. Is that really cigarette smoke? You feel warmer.

"You need to mind your own fucking business," the son replies.

"Oh, that's rich. Listen, I try to do what's best for you. I know this is hard." You still can't see Mr. Robot, but you can hear his sincerity. "And I know that your special friend—" Mr. Robot pauses for a drag of his cigarette, before continuing, "—is just a little bit frustrated, and you're feeling a teensy bit out of your element. Am I right?"

You're sure your lip will be chapped tomorrow; you're biting it again and you taste a tinge of copper. Elliot has not said anything for at least a minute.

You remember to breathe through your nose.

"Let me help you, kiddo," Mr. Robot says in earnest.

More silence. The room feels still. Lying there under the dark cotton you can't help but wonder if they somehow vanished from the apartment. The space feels empty. You sense the hot beads of sweat dripping down the side of your face. You open your mouth to ask for Elliot, and it hangs there ajar, because you're still waiting for anything from Elliot. Where did he go?

You close your eyes. You take comfort in the fact that your breathing has calmed, but with every exhaled breath your space beneath the blankets become warmer and warmer.

When you hear a chuckle, your eyes open. And suddenly, you feel cool. The comforter has been yanked away and you're exposed. You spring upright and are shocked by the wetness between your legs. 

Mr. Robot stands before you, grinning, clutching your hot blanket with his rough hands. You take him in, staring back into his bespectacled face. You notice his flannel shirt beneath his jacket. Like the fleeting image from your dream, a snapshot of what you imagine is Mr. Robot's chest flashes. You smell the cigarette he has indulged. You feel him looming over you, present and powerful.

The older man cocks his head to the side, amused. "Hello there, sweetheart," he says before putting out the cigarette against the surface of the nightstand. "Remember me?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, friends. Sorry for the wait, and thanks for your comments & kudos in the meanwhile! It's been a busy time with job crap, school crap, politics crap. I have some ideas that can push this beyond Chapter 3. Please comment/leave kudos to further motivate me to write for you all, though I do write this for my own (self-)pleasure.
> 
> Two notes:
> 
> 1) AO3 ate the finished draft of this chapter, hence the delay. RAAAAAGE  
> 2) Find the Heathers reference!
> 
> Enjoy! (He's been waiting, too.)

After glancing at the nightstand's burnt spot making sure that _yes, Mr. Robot is indeed_ here _and yes, the smoke is real_ , you quickly determine, with your peripheral vision, that Elliot is gone. This is the _first_ thing you think.

You sit up and stare at Mr. Robot, still exposed without your blanket; you're in the hot bed wearing only your underwear. You keep his eyes on him, hoping he hasn't noticed the dampness between your legs. (This is the second thing you think.) The rugged man casts the comforter to the floor, then slides his hands into his jean pockets.

"We seem to have missed an introduction," he says, and a soft smile creeps onto his face, which immediately turns into a smirk. "Dreadful etiquette. I apologize."

The apartment is still, save for the sounds of light traffic outside the nearby window and the innocent hum of Elliot's computer. Mr. Robot's eyes are still on you. Still on edge from the argument moments ago—the fight that all too likely made Elliot disappear—you keep your mouth shut.

He shakes his head, saying your name. "You can't keep quiet for that long. Do you really want me to do all the talking?" He interrupts himself with a laugh. "Oh! Sorry. Yeah, you probably do, don't you?"

"Where's Elliot?"

You draw your knees to your chin, glaring at Mr. Robot the whole time. He doesn't budge.

"He's around. I'm helping him. You might not see that right now, and that's okay. But it looks like I'm going to have to ... take things slow."

You shake your head. "Please leave. Bring _Elliot back_."

You break away from his gaze and focus on the comforter on the floor. It rests near Mr. Robot's work boots. You hear a sigh and watch as the boots slip away from the pair of feet they contained, and you let the walking pair of socks leave your sight, staying with the comforter. You close your eyes when the bed shifts and creaks. Mr. Robot climbs into bed, taking off his cap and tossing it to the floor. He folds his hands and sighs again.

"I'm Edward. Ed. Mr. Robot—whatever you want," he says.

"I know who you are," you respond tersely.

"And I know who you are," he replies immediately, "and I want to help you. Look, Elliot is fine. He can't be here right now—"

"You won't _let_ him be here," you interrupt. You don't think your voice is shaky. _You're not scared. Right?_

"Elliot _can't handle_ being here at the moment; I promise you he'll be back. You know I would never hurt him. I'm just as connected to him as he is to me." He pauses. "I know you understand that."

"Yes, I do." You've seen Mr. Robot in action first-hand, when he handled Elliot's worst predicaments, both painful and unbelievably stressful. Elliot's compromised duality with his hallucinated father was an element of his that always fascinated you. Their dynamics were more more enthralling than the fact that you could _see_ Mr. Robot in the first place.

You respected him, despite his flaws—but at the same time, you learned to be wary of him. He was, after all, incredibly powerful. And yet here he was, lying next to and calmly talking to  _you_. You wonder why you're feeling warm again, even though you're not under the blanket anymore.

"You understand that," Mr. Robot repeats, and you allow yourself a glance at his body. You wonder for a moment if he's warm under all those layers of clothes. _All those clothes—_

He scoots closer to you and your limbs stay bundled, your knees hiding your chin. "At first, I didn't believe it. I thought you were an enemy, something. Elliot would disappear on me and I'd flip out, but when I found him ... you were there and I knew you could see me. Elliot wouldn't let me in; I suppose he just wanted you to be safe."

"So am I safe?" Your eyes meet his and you search for any kind of inkling that you could use to gain control of this conversation. But you notice his eyes, behind those clean, polished frames. Mr. Robot leans even closer to you. You can feel his heat. You realize any chance of taking control, especially without Elliot, was useless. You feel your heartbeat pick up and you press your nails into your thighs, pinching, because for a moment you wanted to reach out and touch Mr. Robot's cheek—to feel his prickly stubble along the edges of his face, his chin. 

Mr. Robot takes off his glasses and looks down at your legs. His eyes travel from your toes, to your ankles, your knees, your thighs—all the way up to your forehead before meeting your gaze again. He inhales deeply and you try not to think that he's taking you in. You follow his eyes and realize where your own warmth is coming from—inside your underwear. You feel a dull throb aching between your legs and your thighs are begging to be touched.

"Only if you trust me," Mr. Robot says in a tone teetering on impatience.

After a moment of staring, you slowly unfold yourself, swallowing. As you sit up, your legs stretch out against the bed and chest is exposed—to Mr. Robot's delight. He lets his eyes wander below your neck and he lets out a whistle. You clear your throat, revealing a smirk. Despite this ... ordeal, you manage to maintain your sense of humor. Surely this will all end well?

"I'd like to check something," Mr. Robot says and he props himself onto his knees. He replaces his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. Your eyes dart quickly to his belt buckle.

"Oh? What would that be?"

"Just ... something." Suddenly, a burst of motion so fast you don't have time to react: One hand shoves you back onto the bed and your head smacks hard against a pillow. He holds you down with one hand as he climbs over to straddle you, and you can feel the denim graze your hips. The ache returns from where Elliot shoved you; Mr. Robot's hand is pressed to the same place, and his other hand flies downward, sliding roughly against your stomach and into your underwear. You gasp as he lets his fingers stroke your aching spot, surprised at the sensation of skin and cloth. Somehow, you didn't notice he was wearing black, fingerless gloves.

"I thought I smelled 'fuck me,'" Mr. Robot exhales, and his fingers continue to work you, and all you can do is stifle a moan or four while staring at the dingy ceiling of Elliot's apartment. "I know more than you think I do. I might not be around, but I can  _feel_." He punctuated his words with a well-timed stroke; you let out a hitched groan. "I know what you want and I can give it to you, and we can keep it our little secret. I know you've wondered about me. What I can do."

You squirm beneath Mr. Robot and you thrust your hips toward his digits in desperation. He instantly notices and whips his hand away from your groin. You let out a whine. "That easy, huh? I'm sorry you've been deprived for so long. We'll fix that right away. Our little secret." He moves off you and off of the bed. As you regain your senses, you hear some soft smacking noises. You look over and Mr. Robot is gently sucking the tips of his fingers, tasting you like a chef. He catches you staring, takes off his long, gray knitted scarf and says, "Get on your knees."

You quickly move to obey. You're dizzy. The pleasure from his fingers shot through you like a rocket, and it was so cruel for Mr. Robot to stop. As you flip yourself over to get on all fours, Mr. Robot yells, "Wait! Not yet. First, take them off. And don't look at me."

You slowly undress for Mr. Robot, hooking your fingers into the soft fabric of your underwear. You slide the garment off of you, over your ass and down your thighs. You shimmy out of them and leave them bunched up near your ankles.

"Knees!" Mr. Robot commands.

• • •

You move onto your knees and shift your weight onto your palms. You stare at the patch of mattress between your hands, now feeling a greater ache between your thighs.

"Oh, boy, you're going to enjoy this," Mr. Robot sighs. He moves back onto the bed and positions himself behind you. You close your eyes and you hear the loud clinking of his belt buckle being undone. The mattress shifts as he does, and you maintain your balance by leaning forward. You're thrown off-kilter when Mr. Robot reaches and grabs your hair, tugging you backward. Your gasp and your head turns upward, facing the ceiling, and suddenly your vision becomes fuzzy and gray. Mr. Robot loops his scarf over your eyes, releasing your hair as he ties the scarf behind you. While your eyes are covered, part of the scarf touches your nose, so you can smell him. Earthy, mixed with nicotine. You remembered the scarf delicately draped over his shoulders when he entered the room. It's now your makeshift blindfold.

Before you can register where you are as his scent overtakes you, Mr. Robot grabs you, rough, calloused fingers digging into your hips, and he pulls you backward and you scream as he drives himself deep into you, splitting you in two.

He wastes no time fucking you, pounding into you vigorously without abandon. You moan loudly as his throbbing cock enters you over and over again, and you finally accept that yes, this is all real and yes, Mr. Robot is giving you the best rough sex in Elliot's own bed, yes, yes, yes—and you're grateful that he somehow cannot read your mind, even though he knows for sure you're enjoying every second of this, every thrust he gives.

Mr. Robot is moaning too and that turns you on even more— _he's liking this as much as_ you  _are?_ You meet his thrusts with desperation, bucking your hips to collide with him to hit the right spot, again and again, and soon the two of you find a rhythm, and it settles into a—rough—gruff—stubborn—staccato—and he thrusts his hips into you and while you can't see him, you picture him through a vague gray haze, fully clothed with the exception of his cock. He pulls your hair again and this time you're aware of his apparel; the cuff of his jacket touches your neck and its zipper grazes the skin of your back. The metal is cold and you let out a groan from your throat, overwhelmed by all the sensations. The heat between your thighs starts to crescendo, creeping toward the peak of climax, further amplified by the fabric of Mr. Robot's clothes, the strength of his grip and the loud creaking of the mattress and bed frame beneath you.

"Jesus!—Fucking christ, you feel fantastic," he manages to say in between thrusts. You clench around his dick in response and in hisses and moans in return. Every sound he makes brings you closer to the edge.

"I bet this feels good, doesn't it," Mr. Robot pants before saying your name.

"Yes," you whine, your nails digging into the mattress.

"Fuck—hold still, hold fucking still," he orders. You stop rocking into his crotch and let out another whine. Mr. Robot pulls himself out, just barely leaving in the tip of his cock.

You are ready to let go. "Please ... " You feel his cock twitch inside you. He teases you with a gentle push.

"What do you want?" he says, his voice aching with hunger.

"You," you beg. "Please, please fuck me." You curse yourself; your voice sounds like you're on the verge of tears instead of an orgasm.

You don't know if you're mortified or if you're even more turned on when you hear him let him a low, almost-sinister laugh. 

"No ... you're going to need to do better than that," Mr. Robot says, teasing you slowly with his hips. "First, I can't hear you." 

"Please," you moan, louder. 

He laughs, your name falling from his tongue. "Please  _what_?" He punctuates his demand with a sharp thrust. You draw a sharp gasp.

"Please! Fuck me!" you shout. You don't care how loud you are. You don't care if the window in Elliot's apartment is open, just beyond the bed.

"Who am I?" Mr. Robot starts to move ever-so-slowly into and out of you. You can feel his jeans again, as well as the warmth of his thighs.

You don't respond. You're doing all that you can to hold yourself back, to contain your release until he grants you permission. With a rushed motion, Mr. Robot hunches closer to you, and you can feel his hot, hitched breath right by your ear, and every few seconds you can feel his hair, and you maybe catch a dampness—his sweat—and his scent is stronger as you sense his hot body, heaving under his layers, and his other scarf brushes against your back as he moves into you deliberately. He speaks again, his stubble grazing that spot behind your earlobe.

"Who am I?" He slows down his thrusts to a painfully slow pace. You whine again, desperate for relief.

"You ... you're Mr. Robot," you offer, and you sound pathetic.

"What was that?" He starts to thrust a little faster.

"You're Mr. Robot," you urge. You ache to meet thrusts but remember his command.

"Is that so—" Mr. Robot pants, and before you know it he's back to fucking you in earnest, and you let out a deep moan as you relish his thick, throbbing cock claiming you.

"You're Mr. Robot—Mr. Robot—" Your hitched breath barely catches his name as you whine and groan while his hips smash into you. "Mr. Robot—oh god, fuck me, Mr. Robot, fuck me, please fuck me, Mr. Robot—fuck, fuck me, fuck me,  _fuck_ me, _fuck me_ —"

And it all spills—Mr. Robot throws his head back and climaxes, and you feel his cock twitch and cum inside you, pouring his release in ample amounts. This finally sends you over the edge and your own orgasm bubbles upward and pops, and you scream and groan countless "yes" sounds, mixed with his name. Mr. Robot pulls himself out and you collapse onto the mattress and allow the pent-up pleasure to wash over you from crotch to head to toe. You feel him collapse next to you, breathing heavily. The pair of your breaths are the only sounds in the room.

As your orgasm peels away and you return to your present, you realize your vision is no longer fuzzy and gray. You slowly sit up and touch your face, sensing at the same time the sticky moisture from your carnal hour around your thighs. You feel incredibly satisfied. You then move your hand to your neck, expecting to feel Mr. Robot's gray scarf somewhere. It's nowhere to be found. You lean over the bed and look for his boots, the hat he tossed away; there's nothing on the floor. 

You rub your eyes, blinking. _Impossible._  You turn back to where you were in bed, and instantly, shock overtakes you. You place a hand over your mouth, stifling a gasp.

Mr. Robot is gone. Despite his lingering scent in your nostrils, he is nowhere to be seen.

And in his place, Elliot lies next to you, passed out. His pants are unbuckled, loose at the hip.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, I'm alive! First off, many thanks to everyone who has left comments and kudos here. Thanks for your patience for Chapter 4. I am watching season 3 and trying to figure out how to work in those elements later in this story. Leave love after reading. Hope you enjoy.

When you discovered an indisposed Elliot in bed instead of Mr. Robot, your mind went blank. Like static; snow on a TV screen. 

You saw your hooded hacker, fully clothed, sleeping soundly with his pants unbuttoned and unzipped. You drew in a breath and scanned the bed and nightstand, looking for any sign of Elliot's imaginary foil.

It is when you felt the dull ache between your legs, the soreness below your belly—the echoing remnants of your orgasm—that your confusion reached a fever pitch. Your pleasure was so intense,  _so real_ , and now you were left desperate for answers. You couldn't wake up Elliot. How could you explain yourself? What happened? Did Elliot do this? Did Elliot _do_ this?

Your panic overtook you and you somehow got dressed, snatched your phone from the floor, and sprinted out of the apartment without stirring Elliot. You weren't proud of leaving, far from it, and you cursed yourself at every step down the stairs of his building, trying to get away to somewhere normal, somewhere balanced. You launched yourself onto the sidewalk and walked as quickly as possible toward the subway. While calling an Uber was tempting, you couldn't focus enough on what to do—you just needed to walk. Fast. 

Flashes of what transpired moments—hours?—before, in Elliot's bed, interrupted your power-walk. 

_When he took off his glasses_

_When he straddled you_

_When he wrapped his musky scarf over your face_

_When he rammed—_

Once you reached underground, you rushed ahead after spotting an incoming train—and rammed yourself into a turnstile. You forgot to swipe your stupid MTA card. You held back a cry as you swiped and stumbled through the closing doors, nearly collapsing into an empty seat. You were aching and certainly bruising, and the pain from the turnstile reminded you of Mr. Robot's fierce dominance:

When he forced you down, commanded you to your knees—

_Fucked you—_

"Shit. God damn it, shit," you whisper, angrily wiping a tear from your cheek. You feel foolish, betrayed.

• • •

And despite your heavy shame you somehow got home and locked the door, ran into the bathroom and turned on your bathtub faucet. Off went your clothes and you held back more tears. That familiar darkness was clawing into you again.

Slipping into the warm rising water, you realize you're now alone, and now you had to somehow process what happened in Elliot's bedroom.

With Mr. Robot.

• • • 

You woke up to Elliot calling you, your iPhone buzzing, and you were still wrapped in your towel. He asked if you were okay, where you went. Did he do something wrong? 

There was no way you could admit to what happened. You barely understood it all on your own. And how could he even forgive you? You bit your lip as you went through your lie over the phone, thumbing your pillow anxiously. You feigned sheepishness: You two went at it and before you knew it, Elliot passed out in bed. You were shocked, amused, and tired.

We had ... a wild night, you said, hoping the awkward pause wasn't too noticeable.

"Why didn't you just spend the night?" Elliot asked.

You let out a nervous laugh, and you mention a big, _big_  mess the two of you made. You needed to get home and change, you said coyly, blushing. That part was certainly true. 

"Huh, well," Elliot murmured, letting out a chuckle himself. "Good to know I'm that good, I guess."

Maybe we could do it again, you said, shocked at your words. You shoved your pillow over your face, hoping to stuff the words back into your mouth. Before you knew it you had another date with Elliot, but deep down you wondered if you were going to see Mr. Robot, too. 

Your pillow muffled a few more curses before you dozed off, your towel serving as your comforter.

• • •

You and Elliot return to his apartment after a long walk in the city one afternoon. He had his arm hooked around yours as Flipper trotted ahead of the two of you, and you took turns holding the leash. Every time Elliot drew you close, you beamed. Both of you enjoyed the sunset as you walked back toward his place.

You stop in front of his apartment door, giving you a chance to admire his hair, dark and soft. Flipper waits patiently while Elliot leans over to kiss you, and your hands grip the black cotton across his chest, interrupted by a zipper. You kiss him back and you feel warm and wonderful and nothing else matters.

Nothing else matters, because Elliot never remembered what happened that night. Like a glitch.

Your kiss spills into his apartment—Elliot unlocks the door and leads you inside, his lips pressed to yours, and the leash drops to the floor and Flipper scampers away from your lust. Elliot tugs at your hair while you unzip his jacket, yanking it down over his shoulders, leaving his black T-shirt and jeans. Elliot's hands find their way under your shirt, and then it's over your head, and then you trip over clothing as your frenzy picks up and the two of you collide into a wall. Your tongue meets his and you sizzle with anticipation as he presses himself into you, clearly aroused. He breaks away and pants and you take a moment to start unbuckling his jeans.

Out springs Elliot's cock, ready to be stroked and sucked.

"Fuck, how is this real," Elliot moans, and his words force you to push away your memory of that night, your lies. But you're caught in a hot haze and you rush back to that dark urge, and in a desperate move to return to that moment with Mr. Robot, you hear his voice shouting in your ears and you drop to your knees, bringing Elliot's jeans and underwear with you to the floor.

Elliot's eyes widen at your brazenness, but before he can respond you take him into your mouth and whip your tongue up and down his member, you fingers digging into the backs of his thighs. Elliot lets out a groan, leaning back against the wall. Your eyes, meanwhile, are shut tight, and you shove your mouth along his length over and over again, coating it with your hot saliva. You taste Elliot's precum and you wonder how  _his_ would be, and you keep sucking, licking, further motivated by Elliot's cries of pleasure.

You breathe sharply through your nose, taking in Elliot's scent, pretending it's Mr. Robot's. You somehow take more of his cock into your mouth, selfishly pulling against Elliot's thighs, and he moans louder, feeling the edge your throat, enveloped by wetness behind your lips. You work your tongue again, swirling it as you bob your head, waiting for Elliot to let go.

You barely make out Elliot whimpering, "It's... fuck, it's not... it's not fair..."

You slowly draw your head away and tease the tip of his cock with your tongue. Feeling a cramp, you take a breath of air and open your eyes—and they widen after catching the pile of light denim crumpled around a pair of unfamiliar ankles. You look up and you no longer see black, but instead brown and plaid, with a gray scarf dangling above your forehead.

Mr. Robot stands above you, desperate for your mouth, leaning against the wall for support and panting. He isn't wearing his hat this time, and you notice him tensing his fingers, trying to grip at the wall for some semblance of balance. You can hardly believe your eyes. Indeed, how is this real?

You try to speak, but interrupts. "I couldn't let him have all the fun," Mr. Robot manages with a grunt, smirking. "Kid doesn't know what he's got here. You are something else."

You stare up at him, breathing, still recovering from the surprise. Your hot breath makes his cock twitch, and Mr. Robot lets out another groan. 

"Did I say you could stop?" Before you can protest, his gloved hand pushes hard against the back of your head, shoving your mouth back onto his throbbing cock. As soon as your tongue meets his skin, he moans and holds you firmly in place. You desperately suck him, hoping somehow the pleasure you give him subdues the stinging from your pulled hair. He growls and bucks his hips, and in turn you brace yourself with your palms against the wall for balance as Mr. Robot fucks your mouth, both hands digging into your scalp, shoving you into him without abandon.

You do everything you can to stifle your gag reflex, thinking about your own unbelievable, unbearable arousal. With a couple more pumps Mr. Robot shouts your name, punctuated with thrusts, until he spurts and spasms in your mouth, onto your tongue. You swallow it all, as if you're taking gulps, and all you can hear is Mr. Robot panting with near exhaustion. 

"You're not done," Mr. Robot snarls, and he yanks your hair to pull you to your feet, and you scream in pain. He quickly switches places with you and shoves you into the wall without apology. You feel your jeans slide roughly down your hips, stopping at your ankles, and now you feel so exposed because he knows you're dripping now. He presses his hands against your wrists, just above your ears, your hands balled into fists. While you whine, Mr. Robot laughs and knees your legs apart, and you brace for the welcome inevitable. 

When he plunges into you, you scream and squirm, but you can't resist his weight against your wrists, your legs. You helplessly fight but he shoves himself into you, moaning with you. You throw your head back against him and his scruff scratches your neck and cheek as he fucks you—and you buck into him, yes, until you cannot contain the pleasure, the desire, the fill he gives you with every thrust and push and push and _push_ — 

A powerful orgasm ruptures inside you, and you fight for every last throbbing thrust he can give, which turn into spasms stemming from a second orgasm of his own.

You both become still, and collapse against each other. Mr. Robot barely holds himself up against the wall so that he doesn't crush you beneath him. You try to feel him, his clothing, his skin. You feel the pleasant soreness of your rough sex and you convince yourself that  _that_ is enough, that he's there. You catch your breath together, and Mr. Robot sighs and releases your wrists, his gloved hands finally coming to rest at your waist.

"You can't tell him. Anything," Mr. Robot says, your vision finally coming into focus.

You breathe him in, finding that familiar aroma of nicotine.

"No," you say. "Not a thing."


End file.
